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The Academy of American Poets is the largest membership-based nonprofit organization fostering an appreciation for contemporary poetry and supporting American poets. For over three generations, the Academy has connected millions of people to great poetry through programs such as National Poetry Month, the largest literary celebration in the world; Poets.org, the Academy’s popular website; American Poets, a biannual literary journal; and an annual series of poetry readings and special events. Since its founding, the Academy has awarded more money to poets than any other organization.

“I heard Kishori Amonkar singing on the album Great Jugalbandis, and I was moved to ecstatic grief. Her singing was so filled with insight and revelation, I suddenly understood in an instant so many things I'd been troubled by and wondering about all my life. I aspire to what she does.”

Spoken For

I didn’t know I was blue,
until I heard her sing.
I was never aware so much
had been lost
even before I was born.
There was so much to lose
even before I knew
what it meant to choose.
Born blue,
living blue unconfessed, blue
in concealment, I’ve lived all my life
at the plinth
of greater things than me.
Morning is greater
with its firstborn light and birdsong.
Noon is taller, though a moment’s realm.
Evening is ancient and immense, and
night’s storied house more huge.
But I had no idea.
And would have died without a clue,
except she began to sing. And I understood
my soul is a bride enthralled by an unmet groom,
or else the groom wholly spoken for, blue
in ardor, happy in eternal waiting.
I heard her sing and knew
I would never hear the true
name of each thing
until I realized the abysmal
ground of all things. Her singing
touched that ground in me.
Now, dying of my life, everything is made new.
Now, my life is not my life. I have no life
apart from all of life.
And my death is not my death,
but a pillow beneath my head, a rock
propping the window open
to admit the jasmine.
I heard her sing,
and I’m no longer afraid.
Now that I know what she knows, I hope
never to forget
how giant the gone
and immaculate the going.
How much I’ve already lost.
How much I go on losing.
How much I’ve lived
all one blue. O, how much
I go on living.

Li-Young Lee

by this poet

It wasn’t the bright hems of the Lord’s skirts
that brushed my face and I opened my eyes
to see from a cleft in rock His backside;
it’s a wasp perched on my left cheek. I keep
my eyes closed and stand perfectly still
in the garden till it leaves me alone,
not to contemplate how this century
ends

I saw your eyes before I had eyes to see.And I've lived longing for your ever look ever since.That longing entered time as this body. And the longing grew as this body waxed.And the longing grows as the body wanes

Sad is the man who is asked for a story
and can't come up with one.
His five-year-old son waits in his lap.
Not the same story, Baba. A new one.
The man rubs his chin, scratches his ear.
In a room full of books in a world
of stories, he can recall
not one, and soon, he thinks, the boy
will give up on his

Let there be footfall and car door. Let mebe finished with fire. Letthe man get on a plane for his morningdeparture, erasing each reverie. Soonthere will be only daylight,maybe a blue envelope, torn. Maybe braceletsof color from the petunias. I will need

Someone waits at my door. Because he is
dead he has time but I have my secrets--
this is what separates us from the dead.
See, I could order take-out or climb down
the fire escape, so it's not as though he
is keeping me from anything I need.
While this may sound like